I never expected the living room—the same place where we celebrated every one of my sister’s academic trophies—to become the scene of my worst memory.
When I told my parents about my pregnancy, I’d imagined shock, disappointment maybe, but not the words that came out of my mother’s mouth.
“The first grandchild must be Emily’s,” she hissed. “Not yours. Not from some man we’ve never even met.”
My father didn’t wait for an explanation. He stepped toward me with the same cold decisiveness he used when scolding me as a child. But this time, his intention was different.
I froze, instinctively shielding my abdomen. “Dad—stop! Please!”
He didn’t. His hand struck with a force I wasn’t prepared for. The pain tore through me instantly, sharp and disorienting. My knees buckled. I heard Emily’s voice somewhere behind him, not stopping anything—only whispering my name with a hollow sort of shock, as if she’d walked into a TV show instead of her own family falling apart.
“You will get rid of it,” my mother demanded. “You will not ruin Emily’s future, or ours.”
My vision blurred, breaths turning shallow. I tried to stand, but my father moved again. The second strike never landed.
Because someone knocked on the front door—loud, urgent, three heavy pounds that cut through the room like a warning.
Nobody moved. My father straightened, my mother stiffened. I curled slightly on the floor, my heart pounding, unsure whether to call for help or stay silent.
Then came the voice.
“Mrs. Holloway? It’s Detective Derek Collins. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
My mother went white—as if the blood drained out of her at the sound of his name. Her hands began to tremble violently, her gaze snapping to my father. Something silent and frantic passed between them.
Emily looked confused. “Mom? What’s going on?”
But Mom didn’t answer. She was shaking too hard to speak.
Detective Collins knocked again, firmer. “Ma’am, I need to follow up on the report you filed. Please open the door.”
Report? I thought dimly. My mother had filed something? About what? And why did the detective’s tone sound like he already knew more than he was letting on?
My father tried to compose himself. “I’ll handle it,” he muttered, smoothing his shirt and shooting me a glare that ordered silence.
But when he opened the door, Detective Collins didn’t wait for permission to enter. He stepped past my father, scanning the room with trained eyes—and then he saw me on the floor, holding my stomach, tears streaking my face.
His expression hardened instantly.
“Miss Holloway… what happened here?”
My mother finally spoke—but her voice cracked apart.
“Detective… this isn’t what it looks like.”

Detective Collins crouched beside me, his presence steady, grounding. “Do you need an ambulance?”
My lips parted, but fear sealed the words inside. My father hovered above us, jaw clenched tight, the tendons in his neck rigid as steel. I knew the threat behind his stare: Say nothing.
Emily knelt beside me, but her hands didn’t reach out. She seemed torn, caught between the sister she grew up with and the parents she never questioned.
“I—I’m fine,” I managed, though pain kept pulsing through my abdomen.
Detective Collins didn’t buy it. His eyes tracked the way my arms curved instinctively over my stomach. “Your mother filed a welfare report this morning,” he said quietly. “She claimed she was concerned about your psychological stability after a… family conflict.”
That stunned me. My mother? Concerned about me?
Mom pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “Detective, she’s been unpredictable. Emotional. She’s pregnant with a child she refuses to name the father of. We’re just trying to make sure she doesn’t… do anything impulsive.”
Her voice quavered on the last words. Her fear wasn’t for me—it was of something else entirely.
Detective Collins straightened, observing the room again. His gaze paused on the overturned lamp, the indentation on the wall where my father’s ring had struck earlier, the way I flinched when my father shifted.
“Mr. Holloway,” Collins said calmly, “I need everyone to sit down.”
My father bristled. “You’re overstepping.”
“No,” Collins replied, “I’m doing my job.”
The tension deepened, thick as smoke. Emily finally spoke up.
“Mom… why are you so scared? You’re shaking.”
Her question made Collins turn sharply to my mother. “Yes,” he said, “why are you?”
Mom swallowed, then looked at him—really looked at him—and I saw something flicker in her eyes.
Recognition.
Detective Collins watched her too closely for it to be coincidence.
“You didn’t expect me,” he said. “Not me. You expected someone else from the department.”
My father took a step toward him. “That’s enough.”
Collins didn’t flinch. “Mrs. Holloway, when we spoke on the phone, you hesitated when giving your name. You hung up once and called again. You were afraid. Not of your daughter.” His eyes cut toward my father. “Of something in this house.”
Mom’s breath hitched, her white-knuckled hand pressing harder against her chest. She finally whispered, “Derek… I didn’t think it would be you.”
That’s when the truth began bleeding into the room—silent, brittle, impossible to ignore.
Detective Collins inhaled slowly. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
But she didn’t answer him.
She looked at my father.
And that told Collins everything.
He motioned me gently. “You need medical attention. I’m calling for EMS.”
My father lunged to grab his arm—but Emily stepped between them, surprising everyone.
“Dad, stop,” she said, her voice trembling. “You hit her. I saw it.”
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Detective Collins’s hand moved to his radio.
But my mother spoke suddenly, desperate: “Detective… you don’t understand. If she has this child—if the truth comes out—it will destroy everything.”
Collins paused mid-motion. “What truth?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor.
And then she whispered something that made the detective’s expression sharpen, my father freeze, and Emily recoil as if slapped.
“It’s not her boyfriend’s baby… It’s his.”
The words hung in the air like a detonated charge. My breath caught, the room tilting as though gravity itself had buckled. I stared at my mother, unable to process what she’d just spoken.
Detective Collins reacted first—leaning forward, voice firm, controlled. “Mrs. Holloway… clarify that statement.”
My mother covered her mouth, as if she could shove the confession back inside. But damage had already been done. My father’s face drained of color, then reddened dangerously.
“That’s not true,” he snapped. “She’s lying.”
But Mom was shaking her head rapidly. “I saw the messages. On your old phone. The ones you thought you deleted years ago.”
Emily stepped backward, bumping into the wall. “Mom… what are you saying?”
Mom’s voice cracked. “Before you were both born, before we were married… he was seeing someone else. She was seventeen. She left town suddenly. No explanation.” Her eyes locked onto me—pained, hollow. “When she showed up pregnant… I knew.”
My heartbeat slowed, each thud cold and distant.
Detective Collins’s tone stayed professional, but a new edge entered it. “You’re saying your husband fathered another child before your marriage—and that this pregnancy might uncover that past?”
My mother nodded miserably. “I kept it a secret for decades. We built our life on that secret. If she”—she pointed a trembling finger at me—“had the baby and did a paternity test, everything would unravel. Our reputation… Emily’s future… everything.”
Emily’s voice shattered. “You tried to stop her pregnancy because of reputation?”
My father grabbed her wrist. “This is being blown out of proportion—”
Detective Collins cut him off. “Sir, step away from your daughter.”
This time, when my father hesitated, Collins’s hand hovered near his holster—not drawing, simply reminding him of a boundary he wouldn’t be allowed to cross again.
Dad stepped back.
For the first time in my life, he looked small—cornered. And furious.
I forced myself upright, wincing at the strain. “You both… would hurt me to protect some old secret?”
My father’s eyes flashed. “You don’t understand the consequences—”
“No,” Collins interjected sharply. “You don’t understand the consequences. Assaulting a pregnant woman is a felony, Mr. Holloway. And depending on the medical outcome, the charges can escalate significantly.”
My father glared. “She’s lying. She fell.”
Emily shouted, “I saw you hit her!”
Silence detonated through the room again.
Detective Collins spoke into his radio. “Dispatch, requesting immediate EMS and backup at 214 Prescott Lane. Domestic assault with injury. Scene is tense.”
My father’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding. Mom began sobbing into her hands.
Minutes felt like hours as sirens approached. Through it all, Collins positioned himself between me and my parents—subtle but unmistakably protective.
When paramedics arrived, they moved quickly, guiding me onto the stretcher. Emily held my hand the whole time, crying silently.
Before they wheeled me out, Detective Collins leaned in. “Whatever happens next… you’re not alone. I’ll make sure this is handled properly.”
I nodded, throat tight.
As they pushed me toward the door, my father suddenly shouted, “You’ll ruin us, Lauren! You always have!”
Detective Collins blocked his advance instantly. Backup officers restrained him, reading his rights as he raged.
My mother collapsed onto the couch, shaking uncontrollably. Emily stared at her parents as if seeing them for the first time.
Outside, the ambulance doors closed. I lay back, the sirens rising around me, my hand on my stomach.
For the first time since the attack, I let myself breathe.
Not because everything was okay.
But because the person who walked through the door—Detective Derek Collins—had ended a cycle I’d never even realized I was trapped in.